CHAPTER III. Jimmie Stops a Gang.
Jimmie apparently forgot his hunger as his chums in the big motor car left the vicinity of the Black Bear club rooms. Casting aside the lemon rind upon which he had been meditatively chewing while they were present, he stepped to the window to watch their departure. Assured that they were safely out of sight, he dashed madly down the stairs with hair rumpled and jacket but half buttoned.
Not many minutes passed ere he was seated in one of the numerous east-bound trains on the Long Island Railroad. His destination appeared to be the station nearest the hangar where the boys had located their workshop. His impatience at the frequent stops increased as the distance lessened. He could scarcely sit still.
With his lower lids puckered up into a straight line, drawing crow's feet about the corners of his usually wide-open, frank blue eyes, with little lumps of hard muscle protruding from the corners of his jaws, and a bright flush showing in his cheeks underneath the ever-present freckles, Jimmie looked very unlike the merry lad his chums were so well accustomed to greet. He was plainly angry.
Scarcely had the train halted at the station where the boys had experienced their difficulty with the motorcycle earlier in the day before Jimmie dropped off. He ran a few steps quickly, then forced himself to a walk. Again he started to run.
"Great Frozen Hot Boxes!" murmured the lad, as he strode rapidly along the nearly deserted street. "If Ned could see me now he'd call me to a finish! That's slang, I know, but it goes today!"
Turning a corner, Jimmie slowed his pace a trifle until he came near the vacant lot marking the scene of the encounter with the gang of ruffians. Apparently controlling himself with an effort, the boy walked along the fringe of bushes that hid the lot from passers-by. A glance through an opening showed him that the lot was not deserted. Apparently the same group of young fellows occupied the place. Their game of ball, however, had been finished, and they were gathered about a rudely constructed shelter before which blazed a small fire. In a tin bucket simmered a stew of vegetables and meat. All were intently watching the cook's operations.
"Howdy do, gentlemen!" Jimmie quietly said as he neared the group. Several jumped up in amazement, for all had been too absorbed to note the advent of the newcomer.
"Well, what do you want, now?" demanded one of the lads, addressing Jimmie in a gruff tone of voice with a note of menace.
"I'm looking for your captain, or whatever you call him," announced Jimmie in even tones that belied the feelings surging within his breast. Not a hint did he give of the storm within.
"This ain't no time to be runnin' around disturbin' us!" growled the spokesman. "You've done enough of that already!"
"That's just what I wanted to speak about, if you please," replied Jimmie in his most suave tones. "I feel that there has been too much interference already, and I wanted to square things!"
"Oh, you do, do you?" roughly demanded another lad of burly proportions, shoving his way through the group now gathered in a close knot. "Who give you any license to be runnin' around squarin' things? I don't see any streets named after you!"
A hot retort was on Jimmie's lips, but he choked it back.
From the rear of the crowd came the voice of another lad who, following the instincts of his kind, was ready to give advice, but slow to follow it with actions of his own:
"Soak de guy, Pete. He's too lippy, anyhow. His whole gang's too fresh! Dey tink dey can run us 'cause dey got money!"
"Sure, soak him!" cried another, edging forward.
"If you'll let me know which one of you is captain or leader of your gang, I'll talk business with him!" announced Jimmie, not a particle disturbed by the rough talk and menacing attitude of the tough characters whom he confronted.
"I'm de captain of dis bunch!" announced the burly lad boastfully. "If you got any squarin' to do you better take us all down to de corner and set 'em up for de whole lot of us!"
Ignoring the suggestion that he buy refreshments for the entire gang, Jimmie faced the lad squarely, and, although his height was much less than that of the fellow whom he addressed, he took a step forward and looked fearlessly into the other's eyes.
"There's been a lot of rough stuff pulled off lately," Jimmie stated in a low tone. "Somehow, we've been unable to travel back and forth without running foul of you or your friends. Purely by accident we have had the misfortune to incur your displeasure and——"
"Sure, you pulled rough stuff," interrupted the self-styled captain. "You've pulled too much of de rough stuff. You got to quit!"
"That's just what I'm here for!" snapped Jimmie, dropping the suave manner. "I came back purposely to put a stop to it."
"Well, stop it and get out!" returned the other.
"Surest thing you know," gritted Jimmie, "I'll stop it if you've got sand enough to give me a chance. I don't suppose I can handle the whole gang of you, but if you're Americans you'll pick out a man to represent you, and I'll stop him. If I do that, you are to agree that your gang lets us alone. If he stops me, we'll pull up stakes and stay away from this section. Is that fair?"
A general laugh went up around the group at this offer, for Jimmie was much smaller than many of the boys, and the proposition appeared so ridiculous that they could not at first believe he could really mean to challenge any of them to combat.
"Sure thing," jokingly remarked one of the lads at length, "take him on, Pete, and break him in two. We'll see fair play!"
"Is it a go?" asked Jimmie, unbuttoning his jacket.
"Why, kid," warned the one addressed as Pete, "you better run home and tell your mother to wipe your nose. This ain't no place for a nice little boy like you. You'll get stepped on!"
"You're not able to do that!" flashed back Jimmie, paling with anger. "Your feet are big, but not big enough!"
"Now, don't get personal, or I'll have to hurt you!"
Jimmie's jacket and hat were on the ground. He stood erect, keeping a watchful eye on the group gathering more closely.
"Come on, now," he offered, "I'm giving you a fair chance. If you fellows want to be square and right, pick out one of your gang, and if I lick him, we win. If not, you are welcome to the town. This trouble has got to stop some time, and it might as well be now!"
"You guys started it, anyhow!" declared Pete, with an air of injured innocence. "We ain't done nothin' to you!"
"You don't call throwing milk bottles into the road to cut our tires anything, then? Maybe you don't call it anything to throw a bat into my machine or to shoot at us?" queried Jimmie.
"Aw, go on!" sneered Pete, loftily. "You're too little!"
"You're a coward!" declared Jimmie, stooping as if to pick up his jacket and hat. "You're a big bluff! You're afraid!"
"You're liar!" retorted the larger lad, adding an epithet of extreme insult as a final rejoinder.
Like a flash Jimmie straightened from his crouching posture. Without pausing to recover his poise he shot out a stinging blow that landed on the jaw of the bluffing braggart with a resounding smack. It was followed by another of equal force. Under the unexpected onslaught the lad dropped in his tracks. A gasp went around the group.
"Now," announced Jimmie hoarsely, "I'm going to lick somebody, if it takes in the whole gang of you. If you've got a scrapper in this bunch, trot him out, and let's get this thing settled!"
"I'll take you on!" announced another lad, stepping forward.
"I'm trusting to you fellows to see fair play!" announced Jimmie, watching his new antagonist closely. "Are you ready?"
"You bet!" airily replied the new champion. "Come on!"
And Jimmie did "come on." Like a whirlwind he went after the larger lad with a vim that kept him on the defensive.
Shortly blood was trickling from an injured nose, while cut lips indicated where Jimmie's vicious left had reached the target. From the very first it was apparent that the larger lad had none of the better of the argument. His very weight told against him, in that he was not able to move about as quickly as his lighter antagonist.
Fighting rapidly but cautiously, Jimmie dodged heavy swings, always coming back with a return that carried a sting. He was playing a game that he had learned years before when it had been necessary for him to protect his corner on the Bowery from the encroachments of other newsboys. In these encounters he had learned the truth of the old saying that "continual dropping will wear away a stone," although he would not have put it exactly that way.
His theory was that if a telling blow were landed early in a fistic encounter, another in the same place would accomplish more than if planted in another spot that was not already sore. Therefore, he endeavored to play for one spot, while his antagonist scattered his attention to any portion of Jimmie's body that he thought might be reached. Oftener than not Jimmie was well out of reach by the time his opponent arrived. In this manner the smaller lad kept up a continual rain of light jabs, waiting for an opening at the other's jaw. His theory was soon proven correct.
Becoming enraged at his unsuccessful attempts to land a knockout, the larger lad at length tried to rush Jimmie. This, apparently, was just what was wanted. A sidestep, a quick forward lunge, accompanied by a lightning-like hook, and the bully went down to stay. Jimmie's fist had connected squarely.
Absorbed in watching the defeated lad, Jimmie had failed to observe that Pete had regained his feet. Too late to protect himself, he realized his danger. A terrific smash full in the face felled the Wolf, to the cheers of some and shouts of disapproval from others.
"Cut it, Pete! Play square! Have a heart!" some shouted.
Although staggered by the unexpected and brutal attack, Jimmie lost no time in getting to his feet. Exhausted by his recent battle, and with no time to recover his wind, the lad was scarcely a match for his burly foe. Employing all the tricks of which he was master, he managed to avoid the other's rush, but was compelled to take severe punishment, in exchange for which he offered little aggressiveness.
Directly an opening appeared, to Jimmie's delight. One straight arm punch, delivered with his entire remaining strength, fell squarely on the bully's face. He tripped and fell backward, landing bodily on the kettle wherein the boys had been cooking their stew.
Several of his comrades hastened to rescue their fallen friend, while others crowded around Jimmie to offer congratulations.
Disengaging himself from their attentions as quickly as he could, Jimmie hastened back to the station and, without attempting to make himself presentable, took the next train to the city. Arriving there he made his way in a taxi to the club rooms of the Black Bear Patrol.
Well nigh exhausted from his severe struggle, the boy staggered up the stairs, burst into the club room and announced his victory:
"Great Frozen Hot Boxes, I stopped 'em!"
Ned jumped to his feet, preparing to go to Jimmie's assistance. He was interrupted by the whirring of the telephone bell.
"Hello! This is Nestor. What's that? We'll be right out!"
Turning a startled face to his companions, Ned cried:
"The watchman says the hangar is burning!"